


Hey Mom. It’s Me.

by jimikat



Series: You Asked Me Not To Leave [2]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, These boys just love their moms, but not in a weird way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26868460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimikat/pseuds/jimikat
Summary: Every year, Caustic calls his mom on Mother’s Day. He never says a word. Just listens to her voice.After an emotional call, he walks the streets of Solace City and finds himself in front of the Paradise Lounge.
Relationships: Caustic | Alexander Nox/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Series: You Asked Me Not To Leave [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183118
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	Hey Mom. It’s Me.

**Author's Note:**

> This is in canon with my other Caustage fic, “Caustic’s Care Package.”

“Ticacek Orphanage, Mystik speaking… Hello? Is anyone there? … Hello?..."

A muffled conversation, footsteps and the sound of a door being closed, and the voice returns, softer this time.

"Alexander? Alex, honey, is that you?”

He hears a beleaguered sigh from the other end of the line. But he keeps his breathing steady, keeps his mouth shut. Just like always. Never talk. Never say a word. Just listen.

“Is it already Mother’s Day? Saints alive, where has this year gone, hm? Of course you would remember. You never forget a thing, do you, baby?”

She chuckles softly, but it fades quickly into another sigh. The line goes quiet. He wonders if the connection is lost. Until…

“I wish you would come home, Alexander. Suotamo isn’t quite so verdant without that green thumb of yours… Oh, the trees you planted are blooming now. They’re getting so big, Alex. Just like you said they would.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his brow. He misses her. Once a year isn’t enough to hear her voice. But it has to be enough. It’s all he has. All he can risk.

“I was watching those games the other night. Do you watch those? I know I shouldn’t… They're a little violent… but it’s my guilty pleasure. I think some of those boys could give you a run for your money in the size department, Alex. Maybe they aren't as big as they look, though … I like that Mirage character, myself. He’s a little flashy but he has such a cute smile. Kind of sticks with you even after the game is over. And he talks about his mother, so he gets points there. It’s nice to see a boy appreciate his mother.”

Caustic grins to himself, imaging his mother swooning over the awkward flirations of Mirage. He had been aware in some fashion that she watched the games. Though it is a good reminder that perhaps he needs to be more careful about his presentation whilst on camera...

“The orphanage is well,” she continues, trying her best to carry a one-sided conversation. “Though my old bones can’t keep up with these kids quite as much as they used to. Wish you were back here, help me keep them all in line. You were always better at that. Just like your father.” She laughs. It sounds more tired than it used to, but still full of warmth and radiant joy. Two things he had never quite inherited from her. Her laugh fades, pulled into silence by the weight of a sadness she’s trying to hide.

“... I miss you, baby. Come home, Alexander. I… I wish you would come home.”

He can’t hold back the hitch in his breath. It catches in his throat, a muffled cough shoved into his sleeve too late as he turns sharply away from the phone’s speaker.

“Alex? Alex, baby, just tell me it’s you. Please, just tell me you’re fine and—”

He disconnects before she has a chance to hear the choked sob. He buries his face in his quaking hands, cursing under his breath at his shameful weakness.

It’s been ten years since he’s seen her face. Maybe more? Back then, he’d been so caught up in his work, he hadn’t been home as much as he should have been before everything went wrong… He feels idiotic, _childish_ , to ache so thoroughly for even just the sound of his mother’s voice. Nearly fifty years old and he still longs for the comfort of her embrace.

He angrily wipes away the tears crawling along his cheeks, settling in his beard. He shouldn’t have called her. It was an unnecessary risk. He tells himself this every year. And every year, as he sits alone in his quarters, he finds himself reaching for the phone.

“This is ludicrous, Nox,” he says to himself with a groan, gathering his breath, rubbing at his eyes with superfluous force. He stands, tossing aside the phone. He intends to head to his workshop. Tweak the proximity triggers on his traps. They’d been misbehaving during the last match. But he finds himself grabbing his jacket and tugging it on, prosthetic and glove firmly affixed to hide the missing fingers, feet drawing him to tread the darkened streets of Solace City.

The late spring air is still clinging desperately to a meager breeze. It weaves feebly through the overcrowded streets to find its way to Alexander Nox. No, Alexander Nox is dead. Hearing his mother’s voice sometimes makes him forget. Draws him back to a time when Caustic did not exist. When Alexander Nox was still a young scientist longing to help the people of his planet protect their livelihoods and their crops.

He misses that young man, so firm of vision and enthusiastic of deed. He wonders who he might be now if he’d never indulged in his darker fascinations. If he’d never crossed that line.

But it doesn’t matter. The past can’t be changed. He can’t be Alexander Nox for anyone else, not even himself. And when his mother dies, he won’t be there to lay her to rest. To thank her for everything she gave him. To mourn with the countless people whose lives she has touched.

“Stop it,” Caustic growls to himself, shoving balled up fists into his pockets. “Just…”

His voice fades as his eyes drift over the neon sign of the building he’s stopped in front of. Had he even intended to come here? Had his subconscious whispered to heavy feet to carry him here?

The Paradise Lounge… he wonders if Elliott is working tonight. The boy often is, or so it seems. Caustic had only been here rarely. Perhaps… perhaps a drink would be good. Numb the edges of this foul mood he is finding himself in. Or at least numb the fresh ache of hearing her voice…

He draws a steadying breath, reaching for the door when it is shoved open from the inside. He steps back, a dark aggravation haunting his brows as he narrowly avoids the door’s path. A pair of drunken idiots, cackling and hanging off of one another, stumble their way across the threshold, drawing with them the boisterous levity of chatter and music from within, as well as a thin haze of smoke.

Caustic slips in after them, the warmth of humanity weighing upon him. He is not wholly discomfortable in a place such as this. There is something to the concept of being invisible amongst a throng, of enjoying solitude without silence. For many years, it was the most he could hope for.

It is not a thing he regularly chases, but there is an appeal there.

The locale is well-attended, but not crowded. There are a few empty tables, and a few available spots at the bar. He makes his way to the latter, sliding onto a stool, trying to hide the disappointment of not seeing Elliott behind it. Perhaps it is better this way. Simpler.

He isn’t entirely sure what Elliott is to him. He is even less sure what he is to Elliott. They hadn’t spoken about the evening he’d spent caring for him after his dental procedure. And really, what would there be to discuss? Nothing had happened. It was preposterous for Caustic to think something might have. Elliott is young, attractive. Famous. He certainly would have no use for someone such as an aging scientist with years of softness gathering at his middle. Someone with so little to offer. Not even a name.

“Hello, friend!”

Caustic groans at the familiar sound of the upbeat, synthetic voice. He doesn’t need to look to know Pathfinder is behind the bar, but he forces weary eyes up anyway. The MRVN flashes an excited emoji on its screen.

“Witt still keeping you in his employ?” Caustic growls, quickly reconsidering his decision to sit down.

“If you are asking if I work here with my best friend, then yes!” Pathfinder beams.

Caustic grunts. This is definitely his cue to leave.

“Can I get you something to drink, Doctor Caustic? I am getting very good at making drinks.”

“No, that won’t be—” Caustic begins.

“Well if it isn’t everyone’s favourite Doctor!” a jubilant voice booms above the din of the crowd as someone smacks Caustic’s back roughly. He slowly turns his head to glower at the sudden presence by his side. His rankled expression falters when met with the wide, disarming grin of Elliott Witt.

He can feel his expression brighten in a way he isn’t entirely comfortable with when he meets Elliott’s eyes.

“Don’t see you around here too often, old man!” Elliott grins, sliding up onto the bar, feet dangling. He is in prime _Mirage_ form tonight. All impetuous swagger and false confidence.

“I was about to make our friend a drink!” Pathfinder chirps.

“I’m sure ya were, buddy,” Elliott grins at the MRVN. “But I got him from here, ‘kay?”

“Okay!” Pathfinder flashes a thumbs up on his display, mimicked by both his hands, then meanders away to take care of other tasks.

Elliott turns his attention back to Caustic, nudging his arm. “So what brings you to the ol’ Paradise Lounge, huh? Erm, well, I guess… I guess that’s kind of an obvious question… I mean, it is a bar, so—”

“I was… in the neighborhood,” Caustic says, not entirely untruthfully. It had not been a deliberate choice to end up here.

“Great! The patrons love it when other Legends show up. Here’s hoping you’ll bring in the Caustic Crew. That what they call your fans? I have no idea,” Elliott grins. “Got a nice ring to it, doncha think? Whaddya call it. Allidertive? Altertive?”

“Alliterative,” Caustic corrects. “And I’d honestly rather avoid that tonight.”

“I gotcha, bud. Here.” Elliott fishes in his pocket and pulls out a hair tie. “Put your hair up. Best to avoid the initial recognition. And that corner over there,” he points to a small, empty table in a darkened corner. “That’s prime hideout material. Also a popular make out spot, so you might wanna move quick if you want it. Can I get ya something to drink?”

The words flooding from Elliott’s mouth are nearly too copius to comprehend. Caustic is still eyeing the little yellow hair elastic Elliott had pressed into his palm. He glances in the direction of the corner table, and his chest gets heavy at the thought of taking it, especially now that he knows Elliott is working. He would rather stay here, pretend to not be hungry to hear that incessant voice.

“Caus?” Elliott asks, leaning forward and peering at the older man. “You good? Seem a little… hazy tonight. You didn’t get a head start on the drinking, did ya?”

“No. I appreciate your insight, Witt,” Caustic says, standing and stepping towards the corner table. Elliott’s hand reaches out, grazing his arm, catching his sleeve. Caustic turns back, hoping Elliott can’t make out the heat flushing his face in the darkened bar. He shoots a questioning gaze at the younger man.

“Drink?” Elliott asks again, and Caustic feels an idiot for having missed the earlier question. It isn’t like him to process his surroundings so slowly. Maybe he’s just in a daze from the emotions still lingering after the call.

“Old Fashioned,” Caustic rumbles, as his eyes drift down to Elliott’s hold on his sleeve. The trickster realizes he’s still holding on and quickly releases him.

“Old Fashioned, sure, you got it, boss. I’ll, uh, I’ll bring it over in a jiff.” With that, Elliott swings his legs up and over the bar and hops down, flashes a wink and a grin at Caustic, and sets about making a drink.

Coming here was… potentially… a decent idea.

Caustic trudges over to the empty corner table, pulling his hair up into a small ponytail as he does. He sits down in the chair that gives him the best view of the bar. Not exactly helpful towards his stated goal of going unrecognized, but it allows him to less obviously watch Elliott.

The man is a joy to watch behind the bar. Caustic has always been drawn to excellence, to skill and passion, and with every motion it is clear Elliott is at home behind that bar. Caustic can barely hear the soft tinkling sound as Elliott drops the sugar cube into the glass, he can see the slight tautness of Elliott’s neck muscles as he muddles sugar and bitters. Transfixed as perfect shots are poured without barely a glance. The bright clatter of the oversized ice cube, and the way he slips a curled orange peel into the glass with precise care.

Every move of the younger man is an art form, and Caustic is breathless to observe him.

He tries to draw his attention away as Elliott suddenly glances his direction, and he suddenly wishes he had brought his phone to feign idle disinterest. But soon he hears approaching footsteps and a glass is set in front of him. He glances up just as Elliott is flopping into the seat next to him, his own glass of something dark cupped in his hands.

“My thanks, Witt,” Caustic rumbles, drawing the glass to himself.

“Y’know,” Elliott begins with a smug grin. “Seeing as we kind of already snuggled for most an evening, you can probably just call me Elliott.” He winks. Caustic’s entire face flashes hot, and again, he hopes it isn’t noticed. Elliott sinks down into his chair, taking a sip of his drink, looking all too pleased with himself.

“I… yes. I suppose so,” Caustic mumbles, drawing his own glass to his lips and tasting Elliott’s craftsmanship. It is perfect. “Exceptional,” Caustic muses, eyeing the glass with the interest he would much rather be showing in Elliott himself.

“We make the bitters in house,” Elliott says, his voice tinged with pride. “Well, I mean, I do. I let Path try once. It… well, it was a learning experience that we aren’t gonna repeat.”

“You are a talented man. How you make time for both this bar and your holographic work in the midst of the games is astonishing,” Caustic says, trying to keep his focus on the gentle movements of the large ice cube in his drink. He is finding the sight of Elliott far more intoxicating than the drink in his hand, and he aims to be careful in that regard. To want something does not always mean the having is wise. He tries to remind himself of that.

He can want to speak with and assure his mother; he knows that will end poorly for all.

He can want to have every inch of the man sitting before him, but he is convinced that will end just as poorly.

“A compliment from Doctor Caustic? Hot dang, hold the presses, I gotta call Renee. She won’t believe me.”

Caustic chuckles softly. “My compliments flow freely when deserved, Elliott. It is no judgment upon myself that so few are deserving.”

The use of the man’s first name was an impulsive decision, to see how it felt rolling over his tongue. He enjoyed the taste. He would like to say it more.

“I’ll treasure this moment forever, then,” Elliott grins, tipping another draught of liqueur past his lips. “So. What brought you to my humble little bar all f-flustered and distant?” Elliott asks.

“Flustered and distant?” Caustic queries with a cocked brow.

“Or something.”

He rumbles a deep assent. Flustered and distant. Yes, he supposes that is true. “It’s a silly reason,” he says, wondering if he should admit something so puerile as missing his mother.

“Well that just means I can tease you about it later, right?”

Caustic hesitates. He sees Elliott’s grin falter, replaced with sincerity. And concern?

“Hey, um, I w-won’t, ya know. I won’t tease you. A-and you don’t have to tell me anything, but if you wanna get something off your chest,” he pauses, lifting his glass. “A bartender’s lips are always sealed.”

Caustic smiles, only barely, nodding with consideration. He gently swirls his drink, sips it, and sets it down. “The man I was before I became Caustic is dead,” he begins softly. Elliott’s brows raise softly in sympathy. This is likely not quite what he was expecting to hear. “My family, however, is not entirely so.”

“Family?” Elliott queries.

“Mother. I… I always make the utter mistake of calling her on Mother’s Day. I’m technically dead. I can’t speak to her. I just… call. Listen.” Caustic curses himself for how idiotic it sounds. How weak it sounds.

A hand reaches for him, grasping his arm consolingly. He doesn’t say anything. A rare thing for the man. He just… exists there. Shares that pain. Connects with a touch. Caustic dares to look into Elliott’s eyes, and he can’t decide if he hates or adores the sympathy welling within them.

“It’s a stupid thing,” Caustic quickly adds, pulling his arm away and dropping his gaze to his dwindling drink.

“It’s not. You know, it’s okay to— hey, wait. Did you say _Mother’s Day_?” Elliott’s eyes widen, any colour in his cheeks fade in an instant. He sets his glass down kicking his chair back and staggering away from the table. “Sorry! I’ll be right back! Just, uh, don’t go anywhere, kay?”

Caustic nods a curious consent as Elliott races through some back door, tripping over his feet the entire way, slamming the door shut behind him.

Time passes slowly, or maybe simply the sudden lack of Elliott’s warmth makes it feel an eternity. Caustic has soon finished his drink and concedes to asking Pathfinder for another. It isn’t quite as delicious, isn’t quite as thrilling, when made by different hands, but it fills the time well enough.

How long has it been? He checks his watch. Nearly fifteen minutes. He can be patient. Elliott asked him to wait. He can wait.

But soon another fifteen passes, and another drink finished. He heaves a sigh, thinking perhaps this is becoming pathetic. He wonders if something happened? What if Elliott is unwell? Should he check on him? He eyes the door with hesitant longing, running a thick finger along the rim of his now empty glass. He should just leave. This is ridiculous. He shouldn’t crave the man’s presence this much, miss the tenor of his bumbling voice so strongly.

But he stands, slipping out of his jacket and leaving it on the chair so the table appears still occupied. He strides towards the back door, takes a steadying breath, and slips inside.

The room is dimly lit by a few lamps. An office of sorts, walls lined with industrial shelving filled with bankers boxes and half empty cardboard boxes of dry goods. An ancient metal desk covered in so much clutter it clearly hasn’t been used in years sits in the center, an old, beaten-up roller chair covered in tatty fabric sits before it. Duct tape covers a few of the larger tears. An equally ancient, although in better repair, overstuffed chair sits nestled in a far corner, clearly the only thing put to regular use in this room. A blanket sits draped over its back, a pile of crates by it littered with used glasses.

None of that matters to Caustic, however. Because in the overstuffed chair sits a single form, bent over, head buried in hands, shoulders quaking in swallowed sobs. His phone sits on the floor by his feet, as if he’d simply dropped it.

Caustic quietly closes the door behind him. Despite the increased volume of the bar drifting through the door, then slightly muffled as it closes, Elliott doesn’t seem to have noticed his entrance.

“Elliott?” Caustic whispers, his voice barely audible over the din of the bar and the muffled sobs.

Elliott’s body jolts as he looks up. Red, tear-rimmed eyes dart up to Caustic’s before quickly turning away, anxious hands wiping away tears which had never been intended to be seen.

“C-c-caustic, w-what are you… why are you s-still here?” Elliott barely stumbles out the words, the stutter more vehement than ever Caustic has heard it. “S-s-sorry,” Elliott adds quickly, his voice thick and quivering with ill-restrained sobs, desperately trying to repress them. Caustic immediately regrets entering, regrets imposing, violating the privacy of the man before him.

“You… asked me to not to leave,” Caustic says dumbly, cursing himself for the idiotic response.

But the words force Elliott’s eyes back up to lock on his. He stops trying to hide his tears, his red face. He sniffs heavily. “Y-yeah, but… w-w-why’d you s-stay?”

“You asked me not to leave,” he repeats with more intent, his voice deep and gravelly. “That’s reason enough.”

The corner of Elliott’s lips tweak up in a weak smile, even as he self-consciously rubs at eyes still glistening with tears.

Caustic feels like an idiot, just standing there. But he doesn’t really know what to do. Doesn’t know what is wrong or how best to comfort. He has never been particularly good at comforting emotional pain. That had always been the realm of his mother. She would always have a gentle touch, a warm word, big arms to pull you into a generously padded body and tell you everything was going to be okay.

And as Elliott takes a slow, quaking breath, attempting to calm his nerves, Caustic resolves to try.

In a few short strides, Caustic approaches him, standing before him awkwardly, uncertain of what he intended to do once he got this far. Elliott is watching him carefully with puffy eyes. He has to say… _something_. Anything would be better than simply standing here.

“Are you... alright?” Caustic attempts, still standing awkwardly stiff in front of the younger man. And the words sound wrong, stilted. Not at all natural like his mother’s might have been. He takes a mental note of that. He’ll adjust the tone next time. Perhaps position himself differently.

“Yeah, I… ugh, no. S-sorry, I f-feel like an idiot. You shouldn’t have to s-s-see me like th-this,” Elliott groans, rubbing his brow. “Geez, seems like I save all of m-my humil-h-himilyate— my embarrassing moments for you, huh?”

For a second he thinks to take his hands in his own, tell him everything will be fine. That he doesn’t mind sharing moments like this, because he is fortunate to share any moments at all with him. But it all feels superfluous. Saccharine and needlessly embellished. He instead takes a seat in the empty desk chair. It creaks under him, irritated at its sudden load, and he is not entirely sure it is willing to bear it.

“Do you… wish to talk about whatever is troubling you?”

“You don’t… you don’t want me loading up my t-t-troubles onto you, big guy,” Elliott chuckles weakly, accompanied by another heavy sniff.

“I’m a strong man,” Caustic says with a thin smile. “I can bear the weight of your load, if you wish to share it.”

Elliott draws another shuddering breath, more controlled this time. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the dirty floor between the two of them.

“You, uh… you and your mom were close? Before, uh, before whatever?” Elliott asks, keeping his gaze low.

Caustic crosses his legs, pondering the question. “Close… yes, I believe so. I care very much for her. She’s a good person.” He allows himself a sardonic laugh, soft and humorless. “Though she raised a son she didn’t quite deserve to be saddled with. It’s better that I’m gone.”

Elliott makes a dismissive clicking sound. “I don’t believe that,” he says.

"Then perhaps you are too generous in your perception of me," Caustic rumbles. “The point being, yes. Despite my faults, I believe… we were close. Are… are close.” Caustic adds. “Why do you ask?”

Elliott groans, as if not expecting the cause of his questioning to actually have to surface. “Just… you get it. You’ve got someone you love and care about who is just… like, right in front of you and you can’t, um, you can’t reach them.” He leans up, only to slump back into his chair, lolling his head back to stare at the ceiling. “My mom’s like my best friend. We’re… we’re all each other has. And she has g-good days. And everything’s fine. Normal, even.”

Elliott’s breath hitches, the words tighten. He becomes less in control of his voice. “But some days are bad. And she calls me by my brother’s name or doesn’t even recognize my voice at all, and sometimes I just… don’t want to call her or even see her because I’m just so s-scared it’s gonna be one of the bad days… And I’m j-just… she’s… she’s just…” He chokes out a whimper, bending forward again between his legs. “I’m a f-fucking awful son...”

Caustic heaves a sigh, groaning as he stands stiffly from the chair. He lowers himself onto a bent knee in front of Elliott, who looks up in shock, blinking fiercely. Caustic presses back the insecurities of how ridiculous this seems and slides his hands into Elliott’s.

“You care about her. You try. That’s all you can do, Elliott.”

“It’s n-n-not enough,” Elliott sobs, his hands gripping Caustic’s.

“No. Perhaps it isn’t enough. But sometimes… it just…” He pauses, thinking on his yearly mute call to the woman who gave him more than he ever deserved. “Sometimes it just has to be.”

Elliott wipes his tears on his sleeve, refusing to release Caustic’s hand.

“I… Y-yeah. T-thanks… I’m s-sorry,” Elliott sniffs, trying not to look at Caustic. The scientist’s grip tightens.

“You have nothing to apologize for. _Nothing._ ”

“You just came here for a drink and I’m just… ugh, I’m a mess. Ruining your n-night and—”

“I didn’t come for a drink,” Caustic interjects. He isn’t exactly keen on admitting it. But… perhaps the moment is right. “I found myself in a sorry mood, and there was only one person I could fathom seeking out.”

Elliott’s lips twist into a grin that doesn’t follow to the rest of his features. “Y-yeah… a lot of people seek out ol’ Mirage to lift their spirits.”

“It wasn’t Mirage I was seeking,” Caustic rumbles.

_This is a stupid thing to do. You’re getting too emotional. Too honest. Back off. Leave the man in peace and go home before you make a bigger fool of yourself._

Caustic ignores the insight of a man jaded by years of loneliness and self-induced pain. He releases one of Elliott’s hands, raising his hand to slide it slowly over Elliott’s cheek. The man’s eyes close, leaning into the touch.

“I came here for _you_ , Elliott,” Caustic whispers.

Elliott’s eyes flutter open, staring breathless at the older man kneeling between his legs. He pulls his other hand free from Caustic’s grip, and for a moment he sees regret and embarrassment flush across the doctor’s features. But that only lasts for the briefest second as Elliott cradles Caustic’s face in both his hands and leans forward, pulling the man towards him.

Caustic barely has time to register what is happening when Elliott’s lips press against his own. Soft and full, fitting perfectly, the floral scent of an expensive beard oil flooding Caustic’s senses. The doctor dare not move, lest Elliott realize what he’s doing, draw back in horror at his mistake.

And when the young man does pull away, it isn’t with an aghast expression. It isn’t full of the regret and disgust Caustic expected. His eyes are lidded, his lips bent in a nervous grin.

“Where the heck did this side of you come from, huh?” Elliott asks with a weak laugh.

“If I’ve been too forward—” Caustic begins.

“Just shut up,” Elliott breathes, rushing back into Caustic’s lips.

He slides off the chair, toppling the larger man back onto the floor as he scoots forward and straddles Caustic’s lap. The doctor wraps his arms around Elliott, drawing him closer, welcoming Elliott’s tongue into his mouth with matching verve. Elliott’s face is still wet with recent tears, his breathing shaky from prolonged sobs. But it all fades away into this utter feeling of perfection that floods over Caustic.

And he wants him. He wants him so much more than he had even realized. He wants to take him here, push him down and have all of him. And maybe if it were all just sexual attraction, he might have.

But he feels more than just physical satisfaction as Elliott moans softly into his mouth, kissing him with desperation. He wants more than just this moment. He wants to explore more facets of the person hiding behind Mirage. And that requires patience.

He can be patient. For Elliott, he can.

Elliott’s fingers leave Caustic’s face, drifting down to his collar, twisting buttons loose, and Caustic can feel his arousal against him. He pulls back, breaking a kiss he’s aching to continue.

“Wait,” Caustic breathes, irritated at himself. Elliott’s hands freeze, and his expression immediately falls from lust to concern.

“S-sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“You’re fine,” Caustic purrs, holding the man close, kissing the corner of his lips gently. “You are perfect. I simply wish to… disallow myself from getting carried away.”

Elliott leans back, and as he does Caustic’s hands slide from his back down along his arms, gripping biceps, keeping him in place.

“Do you… n-not want to—”

“I do,” Caustic assures quickly. “Though... perhaps at a moment with more intent. Please don’t take my reticence for disinterest. I simply don’t wish to… be a mistake.”

Elliott’s mouth quirks into a pained grin. “Y’know, not many people regret sleeping with me before they’ve even done it yet.”

Caustic’s eyes soften, stroking the side of Elliott’s face, thumbing the lips he’d been kissing just moments before, and longing to taste again. “It would be an impossible thing to regret, I’m certain. Though perhaps not on the floor of your unlocked office.”

Elliott chuckles dismissively. “Nobody comes in here, its—”

It is at that instant that the door swings open with a chipper, “There you are, friends! Oh dear, you are both on the floor. Is everyone alright?”

“YEAH PATH, YEAH BUDDY, EVERYTHING’S FINE,” Elliott gasps, scrambling off of Caustic’s lap and getting to his feet.

“That is excellent news, best friend!” The MRVN’s display lights up with a beaming emoji.

“W-whaddya need, Path?” Elliott asks breathlessly while Caustic grunts, getting stiffly to his feet as joints pop and groan.

“We are almost out of maraschino cherries! That would be bad! So I came in to get some more!” Pathfinder chirps. Elliott waves him on.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead,” Elliott mutters, gesturing to one of the shelving units. “Uh, c’mon, Doc, I’ll, uh, g-get you another drink?”

"Certainly. Though," Caustic laughs darkly, sidling behind Elliott, a hand on his shoulder, his lips at his ear. “You might want to take a moment to adjust yourself,” he hisses, gripping Elliott’s shoulder before brushing past him.

Elliott glances down, muttering, “Oh for Pete’s sake,” at the very blatant tightness of his pants while Caustic chuckles his way to the door. He slips back into the bar, almost loathe to miss Elliott’s stumbling explanation for Path’s queries.

He can still feel the ghost of a kiss lingering on his lips as he sits back down at his table. He runs his tongue between his lips, still tasting Elliott on them. He leans back in his chair, humming with soft contentment. A moment later Elliott stumbles from the back room, closely followed by Pathfinder. He’s got a box in his arms, and keeps glancing in it, then saying something to the MRVN.

His eyes dart up to check the corner where Caustic waits. He flashes a grin, warm and winsome, upon realizing the doctor hasn’t left.

Caustic’s thin lips twist into a smile as well, watching Elliott work behind the bar, assured he will find his way back when he can. The image of that smile lingering in his thoughts.

His mother was quite right. It is a smile that sticks with you.

He thinks, perhaps, they might both share a favourite legend.


End file.
